Sunday, June 26, 2005
Mt. Sinai-April 3, 2004
I accomplished one of the last things I wanted to do before leaving this country: A night hike up Mt. Sinai, the site of the Biblical story of Moses and the Ten Commandments, one of early Christianity’s monasteries, as well as the burning bush.
Not an overly difficult climb, Gebel Mousa (its Arabic name) does pose its challenges. There’s ample opportunity for a twisted ankle or busted knee, for example. One of the more popular things to do when you climb this famed rock-covered mountain is to start around 2 or 3 a.m. and reach the top in time to watch the sun rise. A romantic idea for sure — except when you forget to bring a flashlight. Needless to say, our climb was peppered with more than a few clipped curse words, numerous near-misses, and only one true spill. (Davin’s knee healed just fine, thanks.)
The best parts of the hike, unusually, did not involve the peak, which ended up being cluttered with noisy foreigners, supplicating nuns, camel touts and blanket-rental boys.
The best parts took place on the way up and the way down:
• Stopping a little more than halfway up and looking into the utter blackness and seeing nothing but bouncing beams of flashlights, modern-day pilgrims seeking a spiritual experience.
• The black-caped Spaniard who (magically it seemed) kept whizzing past me and then somehow would end behind me again, yelling “Hola!” His face was completely obscured by his long black cape and the dark night, of course.
• The overpriced Nescafe sipped at Chez Soliman’s next to the line of four resting camels while the sun slowly warmed us after teasing for an hour in the morning’s whipping winds.
• The singing, mustachioed Italian nun who must have been about 80 years old and insisted on wishing every new hiker a ‘good morning’ while they huffed and puffed toward the top.
• An image of Davin 20 feet in front of me, silhouetted between two rock walls, in the glowing blue light of 4 am, and disappearing into a turn.
We descended the mountain under a clear blue sky and spent the rest of the morning in a Bedouin camp, alternately drinking chai and napping, happy that the sleepy town of St. Katherine’s, reminiscent of a middle-of-nowhere New Mexican town, was so unapologetically dull.
***
Two other interesting incidents took place during our short stay. While waiting for Davin at a shop, I was invited by an older local man to play a game of dominoes. Halfway through the game, he asked me very nicely if I were Israeli. When I told him no, I was American, he heartily shook my hand. It was perhaps the first genuine gesture of welcome I have felt from an Egyptian.
The other episode was something Westerners may not be able to fully appreciate. Since Davin and I have lived here, we have both quit smoking, casually, seriously, in all occasions. It’s actually easy to do here because of the oppressive air and the gobs of chain-smokers all around. (The Egyptian government actually supports the habit by subsidizing tobacco; local cigarettes are about 25 cents a pack).
Cigarette smoke indoors is just something you get used to in the Middle East (Turkey is just as bad), as much as you may hate it. So, while on the six-hour bus ride back to civilization, there was a handful of Egyptian soldiers smoking in the back of the bus. When we stopped the get gas, the driver, a large, red-faced older man, stomped toward our end of the bus and released a tirade:
“There is so smoking on this bus!” he bellowed. “You are not fit to be soldiers! Shame be upon you! What would your mother do if she knew? You are not fit to represent this country!” And on…it lasted for nearly five minutes. It was loud, brash and melodramatic. And wonderfully satisfying to those of us who have sat there, uncomfortable, miserable, and quiet because it’s not our culture. Who are we to criticize?
The idea of shame and public humiliation seems like a harsh method of dealing with rowdies, but it works here. I have even resorted to it myself at work. We have a photographer, for example, who never identifies people in photos when there are more than two of them. I asked him very nicely every single month this problem occurred. I explained in great detail why it was a problem. I suggested simple ways of solving the problem. After Month Four of the same problem, I lost it. I yelled at him in front of the entire office:
“Wessam, do you hate me? Why do you treat me this way? You must hate me so much to continue to not do what I ask! Don’t you take any pride in your work? Don’t you care about these people? Don’t you care that they get angry if we get their names wrong? Do you care at all about what I ask of you?”
It worked. The next photo he brought me not only identified the people in the right order, he even got their business cards. He brought all this to my desk and said, “See, what I did for you?”
Davin wonders if the idea of shame would work in diplomacy. Imagine Ariel Sharon cowing to Yasser Arafat’s “What would your mother think if she saw you tearing down our homes?” Somehow, I think Sharon lost his sense of shame years ago.
***
I can’t say that I had a spiritual experience during our visit to the holy site, at least not in the classic religious sense, but I did have a curious dream in the wee hours before we started our climb. I dreamt of my friends and family.
You were all there, in the desert. It was misty and dark and I couldn’t see anyone or anything and suddenly, one by one, you all came out. It was as if I was expecting you all. Christy was there (with dreadlocks!); Jenny had a baby in her arms; Brian was carrying a ball; Erin, you were there. I waited until you were all there and then we all left to climb the mountain together.
Not an overly difficult climb, Gebel Mousa (its Arabic name) does pose its challenges. There’s ample opportunity for a twisted ankle or busted knee, for example. One of the more popular things to do when you climb this famed rock-covered mountain is to start around 2 or 3 a.m. and reach the top in time to watch the sun rise. A romantic idea for sure — except when you forget to bring a flashlight. Needless to say, our climb was peppered with more than a few clipped curse words, numerous near-misses, and only one true spill. (Davin’s knee healed just fine, thanks.)
The best parts of the hike, unusually, did not involve the peak, which ended up being cluttered with noisy foreigners, supplicating nuns, camel touts and blanket-rental boys.
The best parts took place on the way up and the way down:
• Stopping a little more than halfway up and looking into the utter blackness and seeing nothing but bouncing beams of flashlights, modern-day pilgrims seeking a spiritual experience.
• The black-caped Spaniard who (magically it seemed) kept whizzing past me and then somehow would end behind me again, yelling “Hola!” His face was completely obscured by his long black cape and the dark night, of course.
• The overpriced Nescafe sipped at Chez Soliman’s next to the line of four resting camels while the sun slowly warmed us after teasing for an hour in the morning’s whipping winds.
• The singing, mustachioed Italian nun who must have been about 80 years old and insisted on wishing every new hiker a ‘good morning’ while they huffed and puffed toward the top.
• An image of Davin 20 feet in front of me, silhouetted between two rock walls, in the glowing blue light of 4 am, and disappearing into a turn.
We descended the mountain under a clear blue sky and spent the rest of the morning in a Bedouin camp, alternately drinking chai and napping, happy that the sleepy town of St. Katherine’s, reminiscent of a middle-of-nowhere New Mexican town, was so unapologetically dull.
***
Two other interesting incidents took place during our short stay. While waiting for Davin at a shop, I was invited by an older local man to play a game of dominoes. Halfway through the game, he asked me very nicely if I were Israeli. When I told him no, I was American, he heartily shook my hand. It was perhaps the first genuine gesture of welcome I have felt from an Egyptian.
The other episode was something Westerners may not be able to fully appreciate. Since Davin and I have lived here, we have both quit smoking, casually, seriously, in all occasions. It’s actually easy to do here because of the oppressive air and the gobs of chain-smokers all around. (The Egyptian government actually supports the habit by subsidizing tobacco; local cigarettes are about 25 cents a pack).
Cigarette smoke indoors is just something you get used to in the Middle East (Turkey is just as bad), as much as you may hate it. So, while on the six-hour bus ride back to civilization, there was a handful of Egyptian soldiers smoking in the back of the bus. When we stopped the get gas, the driver, a large, red-faced older man, stomped toward our end of the bus and released a tirade:
“There is so smoking on this bus!” he bellowed. “You are not fit to be soldiers! Shame be upon you! What would your mother do if she knew? You are not fit to represent this country!” And on…it lasted for nearly five minutes. It was loud, brash and melodramatic. And wonderfully satisfying to those of us who have sat there, uncomfortable, miserable, and quiet because it’s not our culture. Who are we to criticize?
The idea of shame and public humiliation seems like a harsh method of dealing with rowdies, but it works here. I have even resorted to it myself at work. We have a photographer, for example, who never identifies people in photos when there are more than two of them. I asked him very nicely every single month this problem occurred. I explained in great detail why it was a problem. I suggested simple ways of solving the problem. After Month Four of the same problem, I lost it. I yelled at him in front of the entire office:
“Wessam, do you hate me? Why do you treat me this way? You must hate me so much to continue to not do what I ask! Don’t you take any pride in your work? Don’t you care about these people? Don’t you care that they get angry if we get their names wrong? Do you care at all about what I ask of you?”
It worked. The next photo he brought me not only identified the people in the right order, he even got their business cards. He brought all this to my desk and said, “See, what I did for you?”
Davin wonders if the idea of shame would work in diplomacy. Imagine Ariel Sharon cowing to Yasser Arafat’s “What would your mother think if she saw you tearing down our homes?” Somehow, I think Sharon lost his sense of shame years ago.
***
I can’t say that I had a spiritual experience during our visit to the holy site, at least not in the classic religious sense, but I did have a curious dream in the wee hours before we started our climb. I dreamt of my friends and family.
You were all there, in the desert. It was misty and dark and I couldn’t see anyone or anything and suddenly, one by one, you all came out. It was as if I was expecting you all. Christy was there (with dreadlocks!); Jenny had a baby in her arms; Brian was carrying a ball; Erin, you were there. I waited until you were all there and then we all left to climb the mountain together.
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